Perhaps It's Elementary
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: They're friends and flatmates, but they can get on each other's nerves. Not to mention Lestrade isn't always impressed. A look at the lives of Sherlock, John and everyone inbetween. Drabble format.
1. I

**A/N: **This is a series of drabbles – pieces of fiction that are exactly one hundred words in length (excluding the title). For each set (or chapter), there are five drabbles. This started as a challenge, with prompts for each set being issued once a week for twenty weeks. I hopped on the drabble bandwagon a bit late, and ended up rushing to write seventeen sets of drabbles to catch up. That first drabble challenge is now over, but I had so much fun writing them, that I decided to do another one. And just keep going until I get tired of doing them! I love _Sherlock_ and think it's a bloody brilliant series; the characters are so much fun to write and play around with!

Since these drabbles are written for the challenges, I have not come up with the prompts; they are someone else's creation entirely, except for the odd one here and there.

A friend of mine is also turning some of the drabbles into a comic series; check out my profile for links!

Enjoy!

* * *

**I**

**Doctor**

There were times when John felt guilty. Doctors were supposed to help people. When he had been in Afghanistan, he had seen many things that people wouldn't even like to think about: the battle wounds, the ground stained red, men and women – good people – blasted to bits. He had helped the injured. Helped them live to see another day… or another hour.

Then he got shot.

Back home in England, those things no longer existed. Back home, it was worse. Instead of spending time with the dying, he spent time with the dead.

And he loved every moment of it.

* * *

**Companion**

"What did you say?"

"Can't you listen for once? You're supposed to be helping."

"I didn't understand a word you said!"

"That's because you weren't listening, John. You hear, but you don't listen!"

"Well, I'm _sorry_ if everything I hear happens to sound like you've a potato stuck in your mouth!"

"No, shut up, it's all right. I don't need you to listen. I just need you to stand there so I can talk at you, it helps me think."

"Because I'm a stand-in for a skull, isn't that right?"

"Skull? No. You're much better than that. You're my companion."

* * *

**Time**

He stared at the clock. The second hand made a pass around the wide, white circle. As it swept by the 12, the minute hand clicked into its next place.

10:00.

There were three hours left. Three bloody hours and then someone, somewhere, would go up in flames as the explosives strapped to them detonated.

At least it would be over quickly.

John pressed his hands together and stared across the room. Sherlock was lying on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. His visible arm had three nicotine patches stuck on it.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"We're running out of time."

* * *

**Space**

"GET OUT! GET OUT!"

Sherlock's voice exploded around them, fury and annoyance burning in his eyes. John had seen this kind of thing before. Sherlock wasn't mad at them. He didn't do mad – well, he almost never did mad. He was just irritated that the common man – or, in this case, the police – was slowing him down. There were too many people, too many officers, too many echoing voices in the room blocking his concentration. He needed space: space to think, space to run through whatever possibilities his brilliant mind had conjured up. Space to do what he did best.

* * *

**Dimensions**

He knew his excitement was indecent – who in their right mind would be excited about a serial killer? – but he had never found it necessary to care about others' opinions of him. Serial killers were fascinating. They were tricky. They were clever. There were dimensions to the way they killed – layers of planning, layers of precision, all calculated down to the very last detail. It was an artform, one very few people could learn to appreciate. Sometimes it was as if it was meant solely for him.

Shame, really. You couldn't find this kind of dimension and scope anywhere else.


	2. II

**II**

**Island**

People were idiots. There was no shame in that; it was a true fact. But it did quickly become annoying, especially when he had to constantly remind people that they shouldn't take it as an insult. People saw, but they didn't look. People heard, but they didn't listen.

He looked and he listened and he understood the world in a way people didn't. That made him a genius. He was an island in a sea of mediocrity and incapableness. An island in an archipelago of other geniuses that just happened to be criminal masterminds.

At least that made life interesting.

* * *

**Survival**

There was always the question as to whether he would survive some of his dangerous escapades. He did think of that as he rope dug into his neck, burning his skin as it slowly suffocated him. He struggled, but his attacker was relentless. The world flashed before his eyes.

Then there was a shot. A shot in the dark, and the rope was gone.

He coughed, looking up. He grabbed the hand extended to him.

"Why did you do that? I was doing fine on my own."

"Well," John said, "I couldn't bloody well let you die, now could I?"

* * *

**Lost**

"Where are we?"

"I'm… not sure."

"How can you not be sure? Sherlock, you've got the entire city map of London memorized!"

"Yes, but I were not _in_ London, are we?"

"I was showing you that you could memorize _any_ city map."

"Just because I can doesn't mean I will."

"Yes, but I figured—"

"You figured wrong. Pass me your phone."

"Again? Didn't you bring yours?"

"No, why would I? It was in my room when we left. I knew you would bring yours."

"…fine, take it. What are you looking for?"

"A way out. We're lost, aren't we?"

* * *

**Other**

"So, who is this guy?"

Sherlock continued to stare at his computer screen. "Pass me a pen."

John obliged, grabbing a pen and tossing it across the room. Sherlock caught it and scribbled something down on a pad of paper.

"Moriarty," he said finally. "A genius mastermind. If you have a problem, he's the man to go to. Murder your spouse, fake your own death, disappear off the map without a trace… he'll arrange it for you and the police will never know. He's a consulting criminal."

"Like a consulting detective, but for bad people? Blimey, he's the other you."

* * *

**Flashback**

Sherlock never forgot anything he deemed important. So while he might not remember that the Earth goes around the sun, he had an uncanny ability to tell you, for example, exactly what you had said at lunch about so-and-so six months ago if that conversation became important.

So, John wasn't very surprised when Sherlock solved Lestrade's new case in twenty minutes. Eighteen minutes were spent reading all of the files about the string of murders. The next two were devoted to remembering a specific antique sword an old acquaintance of his owned.

Never underestimate the power of a Holmes' flashback.


	3. III

**III**

**Far**

"You've gone too far this time!"

Sherlock stayed where he was, lounging on the couch in his pyjamas. "Oh, don't be so melodramatic."

"I mean it, Sherlock!"

He rolled his eyes. "I don't understand why you're so bothered."

"Bothered? Of course I'm bothered! I eat my food from that kitchen!"

Sherlock sat up. "What do you want me to do? I am in the middle of an experiment, I can't get rid of all of my samples just because you feel peckish."

"No, but you can find a better place to keep human body parts than our bloody kitchen appliances!"

* * *

**Prisoners**

Sometimes John thought he was mad. Mad to be dragged into these ridiculous situations, all because Sherlock couldn't keep his nose out of a murder case for ten minutes and John… well… as much as he hated to admit it, he liked it. He liked the thrill, the adrenaline rush that only came when you were in danger. Without it, his life would be terribly boring, and he wasn't very comfortable being bored.

Maybe he and Sherlock were more similar than they thought. They were hopeless prisoners to excitement and God help them if boredom ever came to the rescue.

* * *

**Peacekeepers**

John looked at the skull. The skull looked back.

It grinned at him.

"That's very kind of you, Yorick," John muttered. He glanced across the room at Sherlock, who was staring determinedly into space again, and silently thanked God for Mrs Hudson bringing the skull back. Between them, they were able to keep the peace, keep Sherlock from blowing more holes in the wall. He did that (or something worse) when he didn't have anyone to talk to. When John was there, Sherlock talked at him. When John wasn't there, Sherlock talked at the skull.

It worked out pretty well.

* * *

**Uncharted**

John was accustomed to running. There were some things you could only do on foot – like intercepting cabs, chasing people fleeing in cars, that kind of thing. If they were James Bond, they would have a car. A car with GPS. It would make for a terrific film.

But they weren't James Bond. Somehow, they always ended up running across London anyway – and they always ended up at the right spot at the right time.

It was either a miracle, or it just proved it was always better to run across London uncharted – as long as Sherlock was with you.

* * *

**Scape**

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Looking."

"You could have fallen!"

"I'm not going to fall."

"Sherlock, you're seven stories up. Have you become a trapeze artist or something?"

"I needed to see things from a higher perspective, so I came up here. The roofs of apartment buildings are excellent for that, don't you think?"

"I'd stay closer to the ground if I were you."

"If you were me, you'd understand why I need to see the cityscape from this particular vantage point."

"Well, I'm not you and I don't understand. So enlighten me. You're going to do that anyway."


	4. IV

**IV**

**Smart**

Sherlock was the definition of a living oxymoron. He was both incredibly intelligent and incredibly stupid at the same time. If you had him take a primary school test, he would probably fail. Yet he could tell the life story of everyone he encountered simply by looking at them. John knew – he had seen Sherlock use the trick in action too many times to count.

At the end of the day, it didn't matter if Sherlock didn't know who the Prime Minister was. He was a consulting detective and he was smart in the area where it counted the most.

* * *

**99**

"Ninety-nine?"

"Unless I'm mistaken, it's terribly important."

"Then… what?"

"Ninety-nine, John!"

"Nope, still blanking on it."

"Ninety-nine books on the wall. Exactly ninety-nine! And remember where she was found. The house number—"

"Was ninety-nine. Coincidence, maybe."

"Maybe, but not."

"What are you going to do?"

Sherlock turned around and grinned. "I am going to take every single one of these ninety-nine books off the shelf and find the ninety-ninth word on the ninety-ninth page in each of them. That will tell us where we need to go next."

"Ninety-nine?"

"I told you it had everything to do with this."

* * *

**Chief**

Detective Inspector Lestrade stared at his phone. The words "YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME. SH." were staring back at him in black letters on a gleaming screen. He waited a moment and then his phone beeped and a new message appeared.

"PLEASE COME IMMEDIATELY. SH."

Lestrade sighed and snapped the phone closed. He glanced at Sergeant Donovan, who had a disapproving look on her face.

"You're only encouraging him, sir," she said.

"We need him."

"He's making us look like idiots."

"We can't do this without him."

She shook her head. "Sometimes I wonder who's chief around here, sir."

* * *

**Agents**

Donovan arrived with two cups of coffee in her hands. She plonked them down on the table top.

"Thank you, Sally," Sherlock said.

John nodded his thanks.

Donovan glared at them. "Never again, you hear? I don't run coffee errands for you."

"You just did," Sherlock said.

"And it won't become a habit. You two swan about here like you're special agents; if were up to me, I wouldn't let you through. If you really want to investigate, go through the system and pass the tests like the rest of us."

"We're not agents," Sherlock said. "We're better than that."

* * *

**Shoe**

"No signs of a struggle, but there's blood all over the ground."

Sherlock knelt next to the body, flipping his small magnifying glass between his fingers, and stared intensely at the feet. There was a shoe missing. "Shut up a moment," he said. "I'm busy."

Lestrade folded his arms. "Any time you feel like being polite—"

"Any time you feel like being less annoying and more helpful, you can shut up," Sherlock interrupted. He stood up. "This man didn't die here and the blood isn't his."

"How can you tell?"

Sherlock looked at him. "It's all in his shoe."


	5. V

**V**

**Super**

John was beginning to hate going shopping. There was a routine that he had to do: go to the supermarket, find the food, argue with the chip and pin machine, and return home only to lug the food up the stairs and put it away. If he was lucky, there wasn't a severed head in the fridge when he got home.

He wasn't going to forgive Sherlock for that one.

"Why don't you ever get the shopping?" John said one afternoon.

"You don't have to," Sherlock said. "If you want me to do it, I will."

"That would be… _super."_

_

* * *

_**Bat**

The bloodstained cricket bat sat innocently in a corner of the flat. Lestrade rubbed his forehead.

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?"

"No, I am not. Do I have a reason to?"

"Yes. I'm trying to get some questions through your easily sidetracked mind."

"Shame. I'll pay attention this time if they prove to be more interesting than my work."

Lestrade sighed. "How did the bat get into your flat?"

"Easy. I took it. Next question?"

"How many times do I have to tell you not to withhold evidence?"

Sherlock snapped his laptop shut and smiled. "Indefinitely, I'm afraid."

* * *

**Wonder**

John listened in wonder to yet another brilliant deduction. He checked his watch just as Sherlock finally closed his mouth and fell silent.

"Ten minutes," John said.

"Oh, really?" Sherlock said dismissively. "It took me that long? Funny, I thought it had been less than that…"

"Ten minutes to solve a case? That's pretty good, don't you think?"

"No. I have absolutely no opinion on my own abilities, other than I am wonderful."

Sergeant Donovan rolled her eyes. "Egotistical freak," she muttered, turning around and stalking out the door.

John stared. "Well, not everyone finds you wonderful."

"Very few do."

* * *

**Hawk**

"What the hell is sitting on the mantelpiece?"

"Isn't it obvious? It's the skeleton of a hawk."

"That's a bloody awful taste in decoration, Sherlock. _Why_ do you have a skeleton of a hawk?"

"For company. Mrs Hudson took my skull again. I need someone to talk to when you're not here."

"You didn't have to get a hawk skeleton!"

"Why? It's so much more interesting this way."

"Interesting for who? It's terrible for guests; Sarah already doesn't like coming around, I don't need another thing to put her off—"

"If you don't like the hawk, find another flatmate."

* * *

**Lantern**

It was the middle of the night and the power was out. Sherlock held up the lantern. In the pitch darkness, it illuminated his face in flickering light. It was incredibly creepy.

"Put that down," John said.

"Why? I think it's rather clever."

"It's just a lantern."

"No, it's not! It's an antique."

"You'll set the entire flat on fire if you drop it."

"I won't drop it, then. Simple."

"What do you need an antique lantern for anyway?"

"For fun," Sherlock said. "I'm bored."

John rolled his eyes. "Why do things always get infinitely more interesting when you're bored?"


	6. VI

**VI**

**Broken**

"NO! Don't do that, you—!"

John came up the stairs and stopped in the doorway. "What's going on?"

Sherlock hurled something that looked like a phone across the room. "Phone's broken," he said. "Some days I hate technology – can I borrow your phone?"

John fished around in his pocket and handed his phone over. "What were you doing?"

"Looking up train departure times. A woman's alibi depends on it."

"And you can't just use your computer because…?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "It's in my room."

"So you decided to abuse your dead phone instead? Very mature of you."

* * *

**Fixed**

"Sherlock, I was wondering—"

"Whether I'd be willing to go somewhere else for the weekend."

"How did you – oh, never mind. Yeah. That's exactly it."

"I could tell from the number of times you've gone out in the hallway to call Sarah. It's Sarah you're calling because you'd never use that tone of voice with your sister and who else would you call on a regular basis?"

John ignored that. "So, will you…?"

"Leave? Oh, no, I've got everything fixed for you. I made arrangements for you and Sarah at a very nice hotel for the weekend. Have fun."

* * *

**Light**

The light from the police's torches were bright, sending sharp pain his eyes. John squinted and saw Sergeant Donovan's scowling face looking back at him and Sherlock.

"Why are you here, freak?" she said.

"We discovered a murder," Sherlock said.

She raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe you."

"Give me five minutes and I'll show you it's a murder."

"And how do I know you're not the murderer?"

She lifted her torch and shone it directly in his face. Sherlock raised a hand to block out the light.

"Because I can prove I didn't kill this man. Just watch me."

* * *

**Dark**

It was cold. It was dark. It was raining.

"Damn it!"

"What?"

"What the hell were you thinking this time?" John asked, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. "Jumping on to a boat in the Thames…"

"I made a miscalculation."

"A miscalcula – oh, this is brilliant. You can't even admit you're wrong and that you've made a mistake, one that means we're sitting on some boat in the middle of the Thames, in the rain, in the dark of the night—"

"I said miscalculation, not mistake. I'm not wrong, I just haven't found the right answer yet."

* * *

**Shattered**

There was a line of shattered porcelain fragments scattered across the floor by the wall. John stared at it, trying to figure out what had happened. Deciding he was better off not knowing, he set down his coat and went to clean up the mess.

"Don't touch it!"

Sherlock, a big red mug in hand, flew into the room and pushed John out of the way.

"What? Why?"

"I haven't finished my analysis yet!"

"Your analys – what have you been doing?"

"This." Sherlock gazed at the broken shards. He frowned and then suddenly hurled the red mug at the wall.


	7. VII

**VII**

**Iron**

"I must say, Doctor Watson, I am impressed."

"How so?" John eyed Sherlock's brother warily. Things had a habit of either turning nasty or becoming very strange when Mycroft was around. Mycroft had a weird effect on people – even weirder than Sherlock, if that was possible.

"Your sense of loyalty is iron-clad," Mycroft said. "My brother is a very distrusting man, but he seems to have given way for you. You are the only person he will trust, and that's quite a remarkable achievement, wouldn't you agree? Congratulations – I believe you may have gained the admiration of Sherlock Holmes."

"Right…"

* * *

**Challenge**

There was another code from Sherlock's mysterious admirer sitting in his inbox. It was written in a pigpen cipher – that had been easy enough to figure out – but once all the letters had been laid out, it was still a nonsensical mess.

Or so John thought.

"No, no," Sherlock contradicted him, "it's not a mess. It's another cipher. Ciphers within ciphers; it's not hard to figure out. I've already got the message."

"Which is?"

"It's a challenge." Sherlock's eyes burned with excitement. "Don't know what, don't know when, but it's a challenge nonetheless. I intend to rise to the occasion."

* * *

**Stadium**

The murder had taken place in a football stadium. The body of an eighteen-year-old football star, bloodied and mutilated, had been dragged across the grass and laid in the centre and positioned as if he had been some ancient sacrifice in a ritual.

Sherlock wasn't interested in the body. It was the stadium that proved to catch his eye.

That evening, he led the police to an underground chamber built beneath the stadium where several murders had taken place. They found the woman responsible the next day.

"There's a reason I've never liked football," Sherlock commented afterwards. "Too bloody ritual."

* * *

**Chairman**

"It was the chairman who did it," Sherlock said irritably.

"Mr Kelly's alibi is solid," Lestrade argued, "it can't be him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you lot? A murderer doesn't have to be in the area to commit it."

"Mr Kelly was in the States," Donovan said.

Sherlock ignored her and jabbed an angry finger at one of the crime scene photos. _"Look!_ Paint! It's in the paint!"

Five minutes later, after explaining why paint was so important, Lestrade sighed in defeat.

"All right. You win. It was the chairman."

"Thank you."

* * *

**Chef**

John usually entered his flat with some trepidation. This time when he arrived, Sherlock had thankfully not shot the wall to pieces or something worse. He was, however, standing in front of the stove, wielding a spatula and wearing one of Mrs Hudson's paisley aprons.

"You've turned into a chef."

"I need to know how long it takes to fry bacon."

"Couldn't you look it up on the Internet?"

"Can't trust the Internet, I need to know exactly," Sherlock said. "I'm running my own experiment."

"Experiment? On how long it takes to fry bacon?"

"Is there something wrong with that?"


	8. VIII

**VIII**

**Ducks**

There were no ducks in the duck pond. Sherlock said that was how he knew that Katherine Kirkland was not the murderer. Lestrade said that there was no way that the no ducks in the duck pond situation was linked to the murder, but then Sherlock proved it flat out – it had something to do with duck droppings. John wasn't quite sure – he had been out of town for most of the investigation. This was a perfect example of when he really had no idea what was going on.

"Ducks?" he said later.

"Don't you know, John? Everything's about ducks."

* * *

**Money**

John would never have said that it was easy adjusting to living with a man like Sherlock, but after several months he began to take things as they were – like Sherlock playing the violin very loudly at three o'clock in the morning, his very bizarre experiments and the continual mess. However, even after all this time, there was still one thing that perplexed John: Sherlock never asked for money – he essentially did his job for free. How did he support himself? Where did his money come from?

Then again, maybe that explained why John always ended up buying the food.

* * *

**Uncle**

There were times when Lestrade would tell Sherlock off and that would instigate an argument between Detective Inspector and Consulting Detective that could last for hours – or days. If they were interrupted, they would just pick up where they left off. It was a strange relationship: Sherlock annoyed Lestrade, yet Lestrade respected him. And despite how much Sherlock was irritated by the police, there was also some hesitant respect for Lestrade.

In some ways, Lestrade was like an uncle.

Which was a very strange observation, John realized, and he decided to keep it to himself. They probably wouldn't appreciate it.

* * *

**Gizmo**

"Would you stop that racket?"

"What? I'm playing the violin."

"Exactly. And it's three o'clock in the morning, Sherlock! I don't want to have to wake up because you're playing Bach's bloody first sonata on some musical… _gizmo!"_

"It's a violin, not a gizmo, John, and it's not Bach's first sonata, it's Bach's second partita in D minor." Sherlock put his bow to the strings, as if he were going to start playing again.

John glared.

"If you don't like it, get some earplugs."

Sherlock ran the bow across the strings.

John went out the next morning and bought earplugs.

* * *

**Tales**

"John, can we talk?"

"Yeah, sure." John looked up over his coffee mug. "About what?"

Sherlock wasn't looking at him; he was staring intensely at his computer screen. "About this," he said, flipping the laptop around.

The screen showed John's blog.

"Not that again."

"If you're going to write down all of the cases then you can at least do a better job of… _documenting_ what I do."

"Sherlock," John said, "I can barely _follow_ what you do. How am I supposed to document it accurately?"

"Take better notes. The better the notes, the better the tales."

John ignored him.


	9. IX

**IX**

**Murder**

John began to wonder whether or not they would have a case that had nothing to do with murder. Sherlock loved murder mysteries; he jumped up and down whenever they caught wind of a serial killer. But after a while, when the streets of London seemed to become bloodier and dirtier than the open, dusty plains of Afghanistan, John began to doubt if there were any nice, ordinary, non-homicidal people out there.

"Where would the fun be in that?" Sherlock said.

"I think I'm going to ignore that. Murder's not fun."

"If you didn't think so, you wouldn't be here."

* * *

**Mystery**

"And it has nothing to do with the string of homicides you've been following?"

"No, not at all."

"Seriously? Are you sure a murder hasn't slipped in here or there with this case?"

"There are no murders in this case, John. It's a mystery. A stolen artefact. Very valuable. The private owner wants it back as soon as possible, most likely because it's actually a black-market relic and he has a buyer who will be very upset if he doesn't deliver it soon."

"Huh. Black market?"

"Yes."

"Why do I have the feeling this will turn into a murder mystery?"

* * *

**Writer**

"I thought you said nothing happened to you," Harriet said during dinner one evening. "But look at you now! This blog of yours – you're turning into quite the writer, John. I'm proud of you."

John smiled hesitantly. "Nice of you to say, Harry."

Harriet grinned. "Of course! I'm always nice, aren't I? You should get those stories published. Think about the money you could make! They'd be really popular, I can tell. And then I'd be able to tell everyone that my brother's not just a doctor and a war hero, but a bestselling author!"

"Uh… maybe not yet, Harry."

* * *

**Retired**

"Sherlock, what would happen if you ever gave up all this detective stuff?"

"I'd be bored."

"No, I meant, what will happen when you retire?"

"Don't be stupid John, I'm not going to retire."

"Okay."

"Retirement is for lazy people."

"You're lazy all the time."

"I am not! When am I lazy?"

"Never mind. Okay, thirty years from now, when you _are_ retired—"

"I'm not going to be retired."

"Hypothetically speaking."

"Very well. I'll spend my life spray painting smilies on my drawing room wall and using them for target practice."

"… you wouldn't make a very good retiree."

* * *

**Teacher **

If you thought the world was full of idiots, then it made sense to try to stop the world from being full of idiots by teaching them to not… well… be idiots. Sherlock often complained how no one could keep up with him. It was a constant thorn in his side, a grievance that would never go away.

When John irritably suggested that Sherlock teach the idiots how not to be idiots, he regarded John disdainfully and said that idiots were born, not taught.

John decided that even if he were given the chance, Sherlock would be a lousy teacher.


	10. X

**X**

**Captain**

Lestrade considered himself to be a good leader, a good captain of his team. On a good day, he led his team to the best of his ability and they solved the case. On a bad day, he regularly wondered how he could possibly be a good captain when he couldn't even figured out if a murder was a murder or a suicide.

Bad days happened much more frequently than good days. On bad days, Sherlock Holmes made a fool out of them all.

And then Lestrade had to do the press conference and he remembered why he was captain.

* * *

**Pilot**

"Have you even moved at all today?"

"Move… who needs to move, moving's boring."

John checked the kitchen. It was still clean from the last time he had washed dishes. "You haven't eaten, either, I take it."

"This is much more fascinating than eating."

"Sherlock, you need to eat."

"I'm working! I don't eat when I'm working!"

John walked over to him and unplugged the television set. "No, Sherlock," he said. "This isn't working. _This_ is playing lousy, mindless video games."

"Put that back on, I was just about to win level thirty-three!"

"Oh, good God, you've become a gamer."

* * *

**Mechanic**

_Drip, drip, drip. _

That was all John heard for three days straight: the tap in the kitchen sink, leaking. He was going to fix it, but he didn't have the time. Sherlock, naturally, had noticed it and then forgot about it because it wasn't important.

So, John was very surprised when he came home and found that Sherlock had fixed the leaky tap himself.

The next day there was water splashed all over the kitchen floor and they were paying for a plumber to fix it properly.

That was the last time John was going to let Sherlock play mechanic.

* * *

**Mercenary**

If you attacked Sherlock Holmes, you had better expect to be attacked back. He was not the sort of person you wanted to try to mug in a dark alley, because he would quickly reverse the situation on you.

Where Sherlock had learned to fight with a sword, John never knew. Whenever he asked, he only got a shrug and some sort of non-committal answer. But after all they had been through together, John had seen some absolutely _brilliant_ tactics from his flatmate, tactics he never thought possible.

"Maybe you were a mercenary in another life," John joked.

Sherlock shrugged.

* * *

**Serenity**

Sherlock didn't rest. He didn't have the time or the inclination to. This did not mean that he didn't sleep – sleep was very different from rest. Rest was letting your mind wander, to day dream, to seek serenity. Peacefulness.

Serenity was dreadfully boring. Sherlock hated serenity. The last thing he wanted in the world was to ever be in a place where he could have peacefulness because the dullness would kill him within twenty minutes. He lived for his work, and his work was anything but serene.

Let the idiots of the world have serenity. At least they deserved it.


	11. XI

**XI**

**Office**

"Maybe you need to get an office."

"This is my office."

"This is our drawing room! It can't be your office, all right?"

"Why not?"

"Because it's my room, too!"

"Get your own drawing room. Most of my stuff is here anyway."

"Exactly. You really need to clean up, I'm tired of tripping over your… what is this?"

"Put that back!"

"Is this a—?"

"Yes, now put it back!"

"This is why you need an office – to put all of your insane things."

"I don't need an office, I'm not an office person. Offices have secretaries. I hate secretaries."

* * *

**Sales**

"Mrs Hudson, what are you doing?"

"Getting rid of some of your old things, Sherlock. You needed to clear out that room—"

"Did John tell you to do that?"

"No, of course not, dear, I know a mess when I see one. Haven't I always told you that you make too much of a mess?"

"That's not the point! The point is you're throwing out my things!"

"It's not like you're using them, dear."

"I am! Now put them back! Bloody hell, this isn't the Sale of Sherlock Holmes' Luxury Items, I want everything back where you found them!"

* * *

**Accounting**

"Don't you even look at your bills, Sherlock?"

"No. I am not an accountant."

"Accounting has nothing to do with it – you need to keep track of this stuff."

"I don't have the time. It's boring. Can I borrow your phone?"

"What? NO! For the love of God, stop borrowing my phone, you're running me up a huge bill!"

"I'll pay you back."

"Pay your own phone bill."

"I don't like bills."

"No one does, that doesn't mean you can ignore them. Where is your phone?"

"Bills are for accountants. It's upstairs, which is why I wanted to borrow yours."

* * *

**Management**

221B Baker Street was a mess. It was always a mess. John had a feeling that wherever Sherlock lived, a mess surrounded him until it took over the entire flat. Sherlock had no sense of what it was to keep things organized, but he did have a good sense of management. Somehow, in the chaos of old books and paper and pens and the odd microscope or two, everything had its place. He always knew exactly where everything was as long as no one touched it. It wasn't as though his stuff was unmanageable. It was just Sherlock's manageable chaos.

* * *

**Temp**

"Well, Yorick, what do you think? Was it the sister or the brother?"

Yorick grinned.

"Yes, that's what I was thinking. The sister had the green scarf, but the brother had access to the arsenic. So they killed their cousin together and then provided each other with alibis."

Yorick grinned.

"But there has to be something more than that…"

Yorick grinned.

"But what could it be? And why would they kill their cousin? Money was not an incentive, they're not involved with gangs…"

Yorick grinned.

Sherlock glared at him.

"And you're a terrible conversationalist. Where's John when you need him?"


	12. XII

**XII**

**Terrorists**

The explosion had shocked the police as much as it had the public. Sherlock was, as always, unperturbed as Lestrade's team ran here and there, pursuing as many leads as they could.

"Terrorist groups… it has to be… only they would target that building—"

"It's not terrorists," Sherlock said loudly.

"How do you know?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "It's our friendly neighbourhood bomber."

"What – Moriarty?"

"Maybe," Sherlock said. "He's back for more. Back to make me dance again." He held out a phone. "The bomb was to get our attention. Now the real danger begins."

* * *

**Deadline**

"Twenty minutes, Sherlock."

"I know, I know! I can do this in twenty minutes! I can do it in less! Just – _give me time."_

"I am giving you time. Moriarty's time. We're stuck playing by his rules, and his rules say you figure this out in twenty minutes or we'll have a dozen people dead and their blood will be on _our_ hands."

"_My_ hands, Lestrade. Not yours, _mine._ This one is for me. I've got to solve it. It's my problem, not yours, and frankly you wouldn't be able to anyway. Twenty minutes. I can do this."

"You better."

* * *

**Jack**

The playing card arrived in a white envelope. There was no name on it, but they all knew who it was addressed to. No one would send the police something like that.

It was the Jack of Hearts. Sherlock picked it up, staring at it. There was something written in pencil the back.

"_The big fish dances."_

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asked.

Sherlock put down the card. "It's a clue," he said. "This isn't the Jack of Hearts, it's the Page of Cups." He withdrew his phone and accessed the Internet. "I need to find a tarot deck."

* * *

**Defiant**

"So, how did I do, Sherlock? Have I become your arch-nemesis yet, or does that position still belong to your brother?"

Sherlock watched him with narrowed eyes. "If that's supposed to be threatening, your threats need work."

"You haven't answered my question. Or are you too defiant for that?"

"I don't answer to murderers."

"Oh, but this was never about the murders." He laughed. "We know that, you and I both. It's all about the game, but the game will only be exciting when there are lives at stake. That's where the fun is. That's where you get your rush."

* * *

**24**

Twenty-four hours and it was all over. Again. Somehow, miraculously, they both stumbled back to their flat, went up the stairs, and shut the door. They had survived; the twelve people locked in the explosives-ridden house had survived. Somehow.

And the psychopath had escaped.

"There will always be another twenty-four hours," Sherlock said. He sat down on a chair and stared at Yorick.

"Sherlock, he almost killed you."

"And you."

"Yes, but—"

"Moriarty isn't finished yet with me yet, John. He will never be finished until he gets bored."

"Then what? What will happen?"

"Then the game really begins."


	13. XIII

**XIII**

**Enterprise**

"Have you ever actually considered becoming a detective?"

"What do you mean? I _am_ a detective."

"No, I mean a real one."

"Oh. You mean a paid one." Sherlock frowned. "Police forces don't do it for me. Too many regulations. Too many offices. Too much paperwork. And they're stuffed full of idiots. It's much more fun this way."

"I would never have guessed."

"Call it an endeavour in active deduction"

"An endeavour?"

"A plan." Sherlock opened his laptop and logging on to his email.

"Right."

"Venture, if you will."

"Sure."

"How do you feel about a triple homicide?"

"Sounds great."

* * *

**Galaxy**

"I don't see the point of having this argument again!"

"But how can you not know the most basic facts about our planet? There's a whole world outside this one, Sherlock; you might not be all that interested in it, but it's there and it's—"

"What? Important? How is the bloody galaxy important and why should I care if it's infinitely expanding? How does that affect me and the work I do? Will the great big galaxy somehow gloriously help me solve a case by writing the murderer's name in the stars? No, it won't!"

Sherlock stalked off angrily.

* * *

**Federation**

"I see you have a fan club."

"I've a what?"

"A fan club. How do you get a fan club?"

"People must be reading the website."

"Have you even looked at your website forum recently?"

"No, why?"

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was considering pulling the website altogether.

"Idiots everywhere!" he shouted. "The sheer _stupidity_ they are spreading on _my_ website, pretending that they are as intelligent and observant as me."

"I don't know why you're surprised; fans generally aren't all that intelligent."

"It's bloody offensive! They're like a… a group, or a gang, or a… or an alliance! It's awful!"

* * *

**Next**

"Next."

John read off the next case file.

"Next."

John read the next one. And the next. And the next.

"Oh GOD this place is boring!" Sherlock finally complained, throwing himself down on the couch. He picked up his violin and played a chromatic scale as fast as he could. "Why can't there be anything interesting going on? This is bloody London, there's always criminal activity! Why do I always have to wait for them to develop brains?"

John closed the file folder and put it away.

The violin screeched through the flat for the next hour and a half.

* * *

**Generation**

Sherlock sometimes complained that youngsters these days weren't half as brilliant as youngsters had been when he was a kid. Then he complained that older men and women weren't brilliant either. In fact, there was no one out there who had an ounce of brilliance anymore.

"That's a bit depressing," John commented.

"There's a large cloud of idiocy on this generation's police forces," Sherlock said lightly.

"Oh… so you were just talking about the police, then?"

"Of course, what did you think I was talking about? The criminals are much smarter nowadays than they used to be. Kudos to them."


	14. XIV

**XIV**

**Psychic**

You ran into a lot of odd people on the streets these days. Some of them were a bit strange; some of them weren't. But there was one woman they met who loudly proclaimed that she was a psychic. Sherlock let her predict his future just to get her to shut up.

She babbled something out about him working with the police and that he had a mortal enemy who would one day get the better of him.

"And that's the power of the psychic," Sherlock said later. He pointed to a newspaper. "They're slightly observant and they can read."

* * *

**Detective**

"He's not even a proper detective," Sergeant Donovan said. "He just shows up whenever he's needed."

"But it's true that he solves cases for the police," the reporter said.

"Yes – no – well…" Donovan paused and bit her lip, looking like she didn't know how to respond. "He does. He helps – but only a little bit. He's a consultant, he doesn't do the work for us."

"Well, that's almost insulting," Sherlock said after seeing the interview on the telly. "I'd be upset, except… well… it's _Donovan_ who said it and, frankly, it's beneath me to get upset at anything she says."

* * *

**Fraud**

Sherlock was an amazing actor when he needed to be. He could trick anyone, given the right incentive. John had seen him order a glass of wine at a restaurant, throw it on his face, and then ask the restaurant's owner to toss him out, all for the sake of the act.

It was practically fraudulent, the way he deceived people. Of course, it didn't matter – the people he tricked were either criminals, who were then caught, or Lestrade, who adamantly ignored him. It was a shame, in some ways: he could have had a brilliant career in the theatre.

* * *

**Awareness**

John heard it again and again – normal people heard, but didn't listen. They saw, but they didn't look. They missed things. Sherlock could claim back and forth and up and down that he was the most intelligent man on the planet – sometimes his arrogance did get the better of him – but after a while, John knew that it wasn't so much his brilliant _intelligence_, but his ability to be exceptionally aware. It was his keen, penetrating awareness that allowed him to deduce the most complex results.

Although Sherlock was also very, very smart. Just not about anything he deemed trivial.

* * *

**Pharmaceutical**

Barely a week passed when John wasn't tempted to get rid of the stacks of nicotine patches Sherlock had hidden in cupboards all over the flat. He wondered how much money Sherlock spent on the things. The man was addicted; it sometimes unnerved John to see him wandering about the flat with a strange, keen glare in his eye and three or more patches stuck to his arm.

One patch he could deal with. Four was bloody insane.

He'd take any amount of playing the violin at absurd hours over seeing Sherlock when he had four patches on ever again.


	15. XV

**XV**

**No Turning Back**

"Come on, John!"

John ran forwards, following Sherlock into the darkness of the alleyway. They had been running for what seemed like hours now; he had no idea where he was or where he would end up. All he knew was that they were chasing someone, and that someone was a dangerous person that Sherlock really wanted to find.

John paused, breathing hard, trying to catch his breath. Sherlock was up ahead, shouting at him to hurry up. John waited for a moment.

There was no going back tonight.

"All right!" he called, sprinting forwards as fast as he could.

* * *

**No Backing Down**

"That's it; I want you off my case."

"But I—"

"NOW! I have had enough, Mr Holmes. You have not helped this squad in anyway; you have deterred us from our work, sent us on false leads—"

"They're not false, you just haven't followed them up to their conclusion yet—"

"—and have been a general setback. I regret the day I let you come in here and… and order us about! Now get out, or I will throw you out."

Sherlock stayed where he was. "Lestrade, you know better than that. I am not going anywhere."

* * *

**Nowhere to Run**

"Come out, come out, Sherlock! Come out and play! I'm rather bored – aren't you?"

Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. He stood his ground; there was nowhere he could go, nowhere he could hide. If he did, then Moriarty would follow through with his threat, and then where would they be? Always the same, he was. It was getting a bit dull. That's what happened when you mortal enemy didn't want to kill you – they killed others in your place.

"Insane madman," Sherlock muttered. He raised his head. "I'm disinclined to go anyway, Jim," he called. "Lucky you."

"Yes. Lucky me."

* * *

**No One to Trust**

"JOHN!"

Sherlock's voice echoed, his call repeating itself over and over again, but there was no reply. John was no longer at the place where he should have been.

"JOHN!"

The echoes faded. Silence.

Sherlock cursed. He was by himself now. John was the only person he could have gone to. He couldn't go to the police – they'd only interfere. He couldn't contact Lestrade; that would be devastating. He still had Yorick, but Yorick was only a skull, and skulls were only good for grinning.

He was alone. There was no one he could trust now.

"Damn it!" he swore.

* * *

**No Place to Hide**

The message glared out, black on gleaming white.

"TROUBLE. PLEASE COME IMMEDIATELY. SH."

_Just like him, bullying me into bailing him out,_ Lestrade thought, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He really did just have to get rid of the damn thing. No matter where he went, Sherlock Holmes could reach him in five seconds flat. Why couldn't they go back to the time when cell phones didn't exist? That would make his life so much easier.

His phone beeped again. Lestrade fished it out of his pocket.

"YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME. SH."

_Too bloody right, I do_.


	16. XVI

**XVI**

**Ranger**

Allison had been completely unremarkable – big hair, makeup-coated eyes, scoliosis – save for the fact that she had been the first girl to hit him. It was a memorable occasion. She had marched up to him, told him he was a friendless, raving lunatic, and gave him a sharp slap across the face.

All because he had exposed her relationship with Mr Mitchell in the middle of the school cafeteria.

The funny thing was that many, many years after secondary school, he was still called a raving lunatic and he was still getting slapped, but the friend thing had inevitably changed.

* * *

**Cavalier**

Molly stared at him, her eyes wide. She did that thing (again) where her cheeks would turn red and her eyes would water, and then she would say "Okay" in that very whispery voice and flee.

John usually told him off whenever it happened.

"You could do with being nicer to her."

"Why? I am nice!"

"No, Sherlock, you're not. She likes you. Show some… interest once in a while, it won't hurt."

"If I show interest, that would be a lie. She might mistake my meaning. I have no intentions towards her, so why should I lead her on?"

* * *

**Thief**

Detective Inspector Lestrade stared at the item of interest on the table. He paused. He looked at Sherlock, who was calmly leaning against the table. He looked at the table again.

"_Why_ do you have another one of my IDs?"

"Because."

"Sherlock—"

"You were annoying me," he said, "so I took it."

"I need it back! Do you know how much it costs me whenever I have to replace it?"

"No idea, but I'm sure it's just enough to irritate you."

"Exactly! So stop pick-pocketing my IDs!"

"Then stop being annoying and I won't have to pick-pocket your IDs!"

* * *

**Acrobat**

"What in God's name are you doing up there?"

"I really can't say – other than I was trying to figure out how hard it was to scale the walls."

"Well, don't expect me to get you down from the ceiling. You did it yourself, so you're getting yourself out of the mess."

"Good. Great. Fine. I don't need any help. None at all."

"… blast it."

"What?"

"You! You're always doing that!"

"What?"

"Getting into stupid situations and I'm the one who has to bail you out!"

"Ah… Interesting."

"Oh, really."

"I suppose that has happened from time to time."

* * *

**Barbarian**

If there was one thing John could never get used to, it was the body parts that kept showing up in inconvenient places (the fridge, freezer… occasionally the microwave). He could stomach it – he'd seen enough on the battlefield – but the final straw came when Mrs Hudson opened the fridge door and… well, her scream could be heard ten blocks away.

She sounded like she being murdered. John had rushed into the kitchen to find her staring at the severed head.

"It's just a head, Mrs Hudson. Come on, I'll make you a cup of tea."

Silently, he cursed Sherlock.


	17. XVII

**XVII**

**Boys**

They were good boys, Mrs Hudson thought. They had their quirks – Sherlock in particular – and there were a few things that startled her, but she eventually got used to it. She had to, when she had someone like Sherlock renting her flat. The only thing that annoyed her pure and simple was the assumption that she would make them tea whenever they wanted it.

And she couldn't keep cleaning up after them. She was their landlady and they needed to do their own chores! How many times had she said, "I'm not your housekeeper"? She had lost track.

Those boys…

* * *

**Mountain**

"What have you done now?"

"I'm… not entirely sure."

Sherlock's voice was muffled. He was lying in the middle of the room, covered in a mountain of books – there had to be hundreds of them. How he had gotten into such a situation, John would probably know within three guesses. His best one was that Sherlock had been going through some poor dead man's books and there had been so many of them that he had accidentally knocked the pile over on top of himself.

Sherlock shook his head when John told him this.

"No… the books are mine."

"Pardon?"

* * *

**Town**

London. Beneath the layers of tourist attractions, businesses, and institutions, there was a simmering pot of grime-coated criminal activity. Sometimes this criminal activity bubbled a little too much and started overflowing into the nicer parts of town.

"Isn't it lovely?" Sherlock said gleefully.

He loved it when the town got nasty.

"It's so much more interesting that way. It's never dull!"

John was not so sure. He could list a dozen times Sherlock had become bored with London's criminals because their crimes weren't interesting enough.

But no, London was never _really _dull. Especially when you shared a flat with Sherlock.

* * *

**Controversy**

"I'm sorry, we can't let you in."

"But I'm your consulting detective!"

"There's no such thing—"

"Yes, there is! You need me!"

"I'm sorry, freak," Donovan said. "I can't let you in."

Sherlock glared at her. "You're just saying that to spite me," he said.

"No, I'm not," she said sharply. "I wish I was, but I'm under orders not to let you in."

"Lestrade—"

"Lestrade can't help. There's a controversy. They know you've been working with us. They're re-evaluating how things work."

"They can't do that!"

"Oh, yes they can." Donovan's eyes hardened. "Believe me, I'm glad."

* * *

**Profanity**

Sherlock swore.

Sometimes, he got very creative. It was a reflection of how bored he was. The more bored his mind, the more creative the swear – usually directed at how bored he was. At least it was a better alternative to shooting holes in the wall. John just hoped Mrs Hudson would never hear him; she might be accidentally startled into a heart attack.

"Do you really have to do that?" John said one day.

Sherlock glanced at him and swore loudly – again. He was flipping through a case file he had labelled "dull".

"I take that as a yes."


	18. XVIII

**XVIII**

**Steed**

"You?"

"Yes?"

"You… really?"

John looked at Sherlock in amazement. His friend didn't seem the least perturbed; instead, he sighed irritably at John's apparent lack of brains.

"I don't know why you seem so surprised."

"I really don't know, either. You would think after all this time I'd stop being, well, _surprised…_"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

John ignored that and gestured in Sherlock's direction.

"Oh." Sherlock frowned. "How does this surprise you?"

"You are riding a bloody horse! I didn't know you could ride!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Where else would I go to get a riding crop?"

* * *

**Peel**

"Peel."

"Please stop doing that."

"Why? Peel."

"Because I can't think!"

"That's not my fault. Think faster."

"_I have a Q and no U."_

"So?"

"So, you try drawing a Q and having no U—"

"Peel! Qat. Qi. QWERTY. Peel."

"Qwerty_ – what?"_

"Peel. Standard English keyboard layout. Peel. Shall I go on?"

"No. I think I've had enough U-less Q words for now, thanks."

"Good. You've got enough letters now to make something decent. Peel."

"Stop that!"

"_What?"_

"Stop peeling!"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "Well, I'm not going to play if you're going to be like that."

* * *

**Gale**

The wind was blowing at a ferocious rate, bitterly cold and biting, and once again he had been left standing alone while Sherlock disappeared.

_Just my luck…_

Suddenly, there was the fall of footsteps from inside the alley. John looked up. Sherlock had appeared at the end of the lane, a silver of a shadow in the low light. The wind gusted down the alley, blowing his long, dark coat dramatically around him. He looked, for all he was worth, like some Byronic hero out of a nineteenth-century gothic novel.

John folded his arms. "Is that supposed to look impressive?"

* * *

**Stylish**

It was the coat that did it, Molly decided. Yes, definitely the coat. Never underestimate a handsome man in a dramatic coat, especially during the winter months.

Stupid winter months. Stupid winter coat.

She didn't mean to do it (and she knew she shouldn't), but she often caught herself thinking about how stylish he looked in that bloody coat, and it made her catch her breath…

… and then she was sharply reminded that the only reason Sherlock talked to her in the first place was because he wanted access to dead bodies.

That morbid characteristic wasn't attractive at all.

* * *

**Needed**

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Oh, come on, you've got to have a better reason than that."

"No, I don't believe I am required to have any particular reason when it comes to choosing my cases."

"We need you, Sherlock."

"I'm sure Sergeant Donovan will be glad to help you."

"Sherlock—"

"Or maybe your own scintillating mind, have you tried asking it first?"

Lestrade sighed, completely exasperated. "This is a serial murderer, Sherlock. Why in God's name are you saying _'no'?"_

Sherlock looked up over the edge of his newspaper. "Because it's fun to know exactly how much I'm needed."

* * *

**A/N: **If you don't know what game Sherlock and John are playing in "Peel", it's called Bananagrams. It's kind of like a lightning-fast version of Scrabble, where you make your own individual crosswords out of tiles. When you run out of tiles, you draw another one from the middle until all of the tiles are gone - and when you draw one, you're supposed to shout, "Peel!", and everyone has to draw _another_ tile along with the person who got out. If your opponents are constantly shouting "Peel!", it can get very distracting since you're always drawing new tiles and don't have time to think about where to put them. Especially if you have a Q and no U. I speak from experience, and as a result, I have lots of U-less Q words stored in my head.

It's a great game, though. Lots of fun!


	19. XIX

**A/N: **A rarity for me, but this set is actually all one story. Think of it as little slices from a bigger picture. No, you won't get all the juicy details, just little hints and clues, since that's how drabbles go. Also, it ended up being a bit Phantom of the Opera-inspired because the first prompt was "Theatre", which made me think of different theatres in the West End, which made me think of Her Majesty's Theatre, which made me think of Phantom. So there you go - my brain works in funny ways. Ha!

* * *

**XIX**

**Theatre**

The words "let's go to the theatre" brought many images to mind – Shakespeare, the Old Vic, sometimes West End musicals – but breaking into the Her Majesty's Theatre's backstage in the middle of the night usually wasn't one of them.

A theatre really shouldn't be all that different from the other places they had broken into, but something about it insisted on being creepy. Maybe it was the looming shadows of the set pieces or the muffled silence of the hanging costumes.

Or maybe it was Sherlock sneaking around with his face partially obscured by the Phantom of the Opera's mask.

* * *

**Singing**

Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers together as he observed the stage below. It was a magnificent performance, to be sure. It had all the appropriate airs and graces and opulence for this kind of show. It was divine. It was beautiful.

It was also very, very clever – and completely worth the amount of money he had spent on the tickets.

"It's her, John."

"Really?"

"There are two things I've learned about her tonight. She's a damn good liar and she plays a wonderful Christine Daaé."

"How can you tell?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Her voice. Her singing gives her away."

* * *

**Jokes**

She smiled when she opened the door. "Well isn't this appropriate. A dark, mysterious man calling at a young actress' dressing room door after a performance. Didn't you bring a rose?"

"I think you have quite the collection already," Sherlock said, eyeing the dozens of red roses that lay across her bureau. "It seems you have quite the admirer."

"Or admirers," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Admirer," he corrected.

She folded her arms. "Do you think this is a joke, Mr Holmes?"

"No jokes," he said. "Murder is not an amusing thing, or so I've been led to believe."

* * *

**Guests**

"That was quite the performance."

"Go away."

"Congratulations."

She glared at him, her eyes gleaming furiously under layers of smoky eyeshadow and mascara. "Get lost!"

"Oh, trust me," Sherlock said, "I am. I am very, very lost as I fail to see why you bothered opening the door in the first place. You obviously knew it was John and I standing on your front step."

She didn't look impressed. "I already told you—"

"If you think about it," he continued, "we're technically your guests since you _did_ open the door for us."

She slammed the door in his face.

* * *

**Puppets**

"I have to say, I'm not entirely sure why you agreed to it."

"Liar."

"Really?"

"Your sense of theatricality is almost as great as my own. You know exactly why."

"You were a _puppet_. You had no freedom. That must have been difficult."

"It was all part of the act." She paused. "Oh, look, here come some officers. I guess they don't want us chatting."

"No."

"Before I go, Sherlock – despite all the great things you've done, have you considered you're just a puppet, too?"

He raised an eyebrow. "If it's any comfort, I'm sure you look wonderful in handcuffs."


	20. XX

**XX**

**Girl**

Molly clutched her clipboard, eyeing Sherlock hopefully.

"So, what are you doing?"

"I am trying to concentrate." He pressed an eye against the eyepiece.

Molly gave a feeble laugh and scanned his work station. The microscope, the beakers, the pages of notes that littered the workspace – and a photograph. The photograph was new. And it was of a woman. A very beautiful woman.

"Who's she?"

"Her name is Irene Adler."

"Oh?"

"She's an actress."

"I see." Molly smiled timidly. "So, why are you interested in her?"

Sherlock gave her an odd look. "Oh, it's purely professional, Molly, I assure you."

* * *

**Secret**

"Sherlock, if you don't stop harassing us during the press conferences, I'm going to have to put my foot down."

"Stomp is more like it. You and your colleagues are like a herd of elephants whenever you go somewhere."

"Just stop sending the journalists texts saying that we're wrong, you're making us look like idiots."

"You _are_ idiots."

"Stop. Or I'll find out how you're managing it."

Sherlock grinned. "No, you won't. I invented it."

"Yes, well, whenever you feel like sharing—"

"Feel free to stomp away, then, Detective Inspector. That's a secret that isn't meant to be shared."

* * *

**Blood**

Sherlock collapsed against the wall, taking deep breaths.

"Thanks," he muttered when he could speak.

"Don't mention it," John said. "Next time you get locked in an airtight cell, you know who to call."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Why the hell did you go in there? You could have asphyxiated."

"Blame it on a sudden rush of blood to the head," Sherlock said. "Or…" He paused and crawled towards the busted, open door. His eyes scanned the edge, locating a small, dark stain near the bottom. "Or," he continued, "call it an extravagant and potentially self-harming way of finding the murder weapon."

* * *

**Magic**

"How did you find out?" the boy asked eagerly. "I didn't believe them, but the police kept saying Auntie killed herself."

"Well, the police were wrong," John said.

"So, you're better than the police?"

"Immensely," Sherlock said.

The boy paused. "Did you find out by magic? I heard them say that it was like magic."

Sherlock grimaced. "There's no such thing as magic," he said bluntly. "I use information – reliable _data_ – from what I can observe to make deductions about people and places around me."

The boy stared, completely bewildered.

"Yeah…" John said. "Better think of it as magic, Robbie."

* * *

**Slayer**

He had a fairly good idea of what he was getting himself into that night. The squad's actions were predictable, and their leader was no different. When she showed up in the alleyway, he was not surprised to see she had chosen a skin-tight red dress and matching heels as her attire for her murderous soirée.

It was remarkably boring. He almost felt insulted.

Sherlock smirked. "You look dressed to kill."

A pistol appeared in her hand. "But of course, Mr Holmes," she said, pointing it at him. "A girl always does her best."

He rolled his eyes. "How dull."


	21. XXI

**XXI**

**Flash in the Pan**

"Well, that was…"

"What?"

"Actually, I don't believe I have a word for what that was – it was so utterly dull my brain seems to have forgotten about it already."

"Oh. Good to know that the quickest-solved case is so unworthy of your attention."

"It was unworthy of my attention!"

"Then why did you bother in the first place?"

"I didn't bother, I got dragged into it—"

"Oh, no, you did bother. I remember you bothering. You had the case file and everything."

"Fine. Okay. I bothered."

"Why?"

"Because I thought it looked interesting."

Sherlock strode on ahead, moodily.

* * *

**Out on a Limb**

John watched with an awestruck expression as Sherlock perched himself in the uppermost parts of the tree.

"Are you're bloody insane?"

"Shut up! I'm trying to concentrate."

"On what?" John paced around the base of the tree.

"I don't know yet; I'll let you know when I spot it."

"Oh, that's great." He stuck his hands in his pockets and waited.

And waited.

"What can you possibly do up a tree that you can't do with two feet on the ground?" John shouted after several minutes.

Sherlock peered down from his leafy roost.

"I can see what the murderer saw."

* * *

**Out of the Blue**

"How long is this going to take?" John asked, watching Sherlock add a solvent to the solution in the beaker.

"Be patient."

"I am being patient. I've been patient for—" John checked his watch – "twenty-six hours."

"Then go to bed."

"Oh, no. I want to see how this ends."

"I told you, you don't have to wait up. This process takes time."

"What process? All I've seen you do all day is mix… _stuff_ together!"

Sherlock spun his chair around. "It's not stuff," he said. "I don't do _stuff."_

Suddenly, the solution turned blue.

"Aha! I've got you now."

* * *

**Wet Behind the Ears**

Molly had been taken with him from the moment she laid eyes on him. When she looked back from that first meeting in her lab, she knew that she should have known better. He only pretended to like her because he wanted something from her – usually access to dead bodies or an autopsy report. She tried to ignore him; he always spoiled everything. But still, she couldn't help it. If she refused, he would just smile at her or say something about her hair and then she'd be head over heels again…

She was stupid to fall for Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**Heat of the Moment**

"Oh my God, I'm _surrounded_ by idiots!"

Those had been the immortal first words that Sergeant Sally Donovan had ever heard out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth. She had been completely taken aback by this mad stranger who had no business being at the crime scene and who had managed to insult the entire squad. When she asked Lestrade about it later, he said that it had been a heat of the moment thing and that it probably wouldn't happen again.

Lestrade was wrong.

By now, Sally thought she had heard every single possible variant of the "surrounded by idiots" line.


	22. XXII

**XXII**

**Impossible**

"Impossible" was a word Sherlock heard frequently. It was usually applied to him – "That's impossible!" or "You're impossible!"

He would be quite rich if he charged even the smallest amount of money for every time he heard it.

When the word "impossible" arrived, he either smiled in response and continued on with his work, or became so irritated by it that he explained, very rapidly, why what he did was not entirely impossible and that any fool could do it if they chose to be observant.

Though, he supposed, it was also "impossible" that such a thing would ever happen.

* * *

**Unlikely**

"That's… impossible," John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, God, haven't we gone over the impossible thing already?"

"Yes. Too many times."

"Then why do we have to go over it again?"

"I don't know – habit, maybe! It's not my fault you do stuff like this!"

"Then clearly if I can manage it, then it's not impossible, just very, very unlikely."

"Oh, fine, all right," John snapped. "That's _unlikely."_

"Good!" Sherlock said. He paused and frowned. "Better."

"What?"

"I still wish that you'd stop saying those things aloud."

Sherlock ignored him and took off down the path, leaving John behind.

* * *

**Reasonable**

"Sherlock, please be reasonable."

"I'm busy, Mycroft. I don't have time to be reasonable, or to go running after some problem you've let loose. What have you done now? Caused a recession? Endangered Great Britain?"

"Your wit is slipping, I see."

"As is your diet. Is it too much trouble for you now?"

"My diet is fine, thank you very much."

"Of course. I can see that _quite_ clearly."

Mycroft sighed. "As always, your sarcasm is tedious."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't expect anything else from you, Mycroft. Now run along, I've had enough familial schemes for one day."

* * *

**Probable**

Lestrade stood with his arms folded, staring at Sherlock as if he were bloody insane. It was a familiar pose, one that he found himself in frequently. He was beginning to wonder whether he should change it up now and then, for variety's sake.

"So," he said.

"It's most likely," Sherlock replied.

"Most likely?"

"Probable."

"Probable? How is it probable? No, don't give me a full explanation, just tell me why it's 'probable' that she scaled the wall and then jumped from roof top to roof top like an acrobat."

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "She _is_ an acrobat."

* * *

**Definite**

John looked at two photographs as Sherlock paced impatiently around the room.

"I don't think they look anything alike."

Sherlock groaned. "Why is this never straightforward? Look at the eyes; they're the same eyes, no matter how much makeup! She's like a chameleon! She's a trained actress, she can be whoever the hell she wants to be!"

"Yes," John said. "So, clearly she's fooled me."

"Yes, good. Now that we've got that cleared up—"

"Unless you're just guessing. They could still be two entirely different women."

Sherlock snatched back the photographs. "This is _definitely_ the same woman," he said.


	23. XXIII

**XXIII**

**Truth**

John was staring at a partial blogpost when Sherlock entered, heard the clacking of the keyboard, and stepped out again.

One paragraph later, he returned.

"I hate your blog."

"Good for you."

"It's a travesty of facts that parodies the uses of fine English grammar and is, quite frankly, some of the worst writing ever… _written."_

"Thanks for the high opinion, I appreciate it."

"The truth hurts, John." He paused.

John waited.

"I would like you to stop writing your blog," Sherlock said.

John looked up from the screen. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I won't. The truth hurts, doesn't it?"

* * *

**Trust**

"No."

"Why not?"

"Definitely not, Sherlock!"

"You've been in a particularly passive mood this week. Please hurry up and get over it."

"There's nothing to 'get' over – I just don't think breaking into a high-security government building is a good idea!"

"Mycroft can bail us out if we get caught – which, for clarification, we will not."

"_No."_

Sherlock sighed, clambering over the fence anyway. "I can believe you still don't trust me," he grunted, touching foot on the ground.

A siren went off.

"What did I tell you?" John said, watching Sherlock attempt to scale the fence before security arrived.

* * *

**Honour**

Under the promise of remaining silent, John watched as Sherlock intensely sorted through file upon file, attempting to find some obscure reference printed over a decade ago.

It was also two o'clock in the morning and the only reason they were still here was because Sherlock had lifted Lestrade's pass. Again.

"Aha!" he said triumphantly. "Got it."

He pocketed the files.

"I'm guessing you don't have permission to take that."

Sherlock shrugged. "Why would I?"

"So, you're effectively stealing from the police."

"That's a crude way of putting it, but yes, I am."

John rolled his eyes. "God help us."

* * *

**Loyalty**

They pulled him back and he gasped, gulping in painful breaths of cold air.

"Please be assured, Dr Watson, this is child's play."

He shook, blinking water out of his eyes. "I'd… like to… catch my breath… _before_ I answer questions, thanks."

"Where is the location of Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't know."

They forced him under the water again.

When he came back up, he spluttered and coughed. "I don't know!"

"You're his friend, are you not? Surely he shares his information with you—"

"Actually, he's been very cryptic this past week. I'll be of no use to you."

* * *

**Love**

It was a blur to him – blinding, watery darkness, pain and gunshots, and then it was over. That was typically how things went.

"It's about time," John said as Sherlock helped him up.

"I agree."

"You were cutting it pretty close."

"In my defence, it does take time to set up an appropriate dramatic entrance."

"Couldn't you have skipped it?"

"Absolutely not! It builds character."

John stopped walking. "I hope you're joking, Sherlock, because if you're not, I'm going to bloody kill you."

Sherlock paused. "I apologise," he said. "I haven't nearly as much experience rescuing people as you do."


	24. XXIV

**XXIV**

**Gaze**

When you first met him, you couldn't help but let yourself be captivated. His manic mode of speech was intriguing, his intelligence mystifying, his appearance enigmatic. He could be kind – a flattering word there, a sugared smile here. A man of Byronic appeal.

That was until you realised the only reason he was speaking to you was because he wanted something. Once you gave it to him, he was quick to crush any self-esteem you had and felt free to continue to pester you whenever he desired.

Sally was determined to never have any illusions about Sherlock Holmes ever again.

* * *

**Wink**

She could have sworn he had winked at her the first time she saw him. She had so many butterflies in her stomach that afternoon. She never caught the attention of any men – let alone a man like Sherlock.

Molly knew better now. For years he had torn her down only to flatter her back into smiles and giggles and hopes. She was tired of it. She deserved to be treated better, and she was determined to prove it.

She had, after all, just slammed the mortuary door closed on his fingers. The obscenities that followed were delightful to hear.

* * *

**Distance**

There was an unspoken agreement between them that John would come to her flat. She would only visit his if it was absolutely necessary, or if Sherlock was out of the country.

It wasn't that she didn't like him; she had only deep respect for the man. However, that did not mean she wanted to be embroiled in his lifestyle. It was enough that he pulled John into his dangerous adventures. As she felt her presence gave John some semblance of a regular life, Sherlock didn't need to have the pair of them.

Sarah doubted he would want her, anyway.

* * *

**Cold as Ice**

She never knew the name of the man she was forced to speak to. Her life was in his hands, placed in his ability to solve the puzzle his nameless, faceless hunter had laid out for him. But when he spoke back, his words meant for another, the only thing she could think of was how cold his voice was, how impassive, as if he could not understand that human lives were at stake.

She sobbed, her hands shaking, but she was desperate not to drop the pager lest she cause _them_ to blow up the car.

_Save me. Please._

* * *

**Eternal Flame**

Some mornings, she awoke to the smell of burnt toast, others to a screeching violin. Then there were the disturbing mornings when she smelled the foulness that was formaldehyde (or so Dr Watson had informed her) when she got up to use the loo in the wee hours. Those were the times when the desire to kick Sherlock out almost became a reality, but she could never do it.

After all, Mrs Hudson didn't know what she would do without him. He was practically a son to her – a thoroughly irritating, yet endearing, son who had never truly grown up.


	25. XXV

**XXV**

**Steps**

It was impossible to tell if Sherlock wanted to be famous.

On one hand, he took great pride in himself and his work (as evident by his website and the ostentatious way he set about dissecting police investigations). On the other, he hated being around people whom he deemed "lesser" than him (which was pretty much everyone).

On one hand, he loved being flattered by comments such as "brilliant" and "intriguing". On the other, he was incompetent when it came to social interactions (any witnessed conversation with Molly quickly led to embarrassment on the observer's part).

This argument went nowhere.

* * *

**Stride**

When he was a child, he wanted to be famous. The world was supposed to revolve around him, but instead it shunned and ignored him, leaving him to watch the other kids with the shiny playthings he could never have.

How foolish his mind had been then, desperate for glittery (but temporary) joys. There was much more sophisticated pleasure to be found in the darkness behind the stage. Now he pulled the strings, watching the world react. He was no more than a phantom to them, but from this vantage point, the world became _his_ plaything.

And it was glorious.

* * *

**Stumble**

As a male DI, it took much resistance to embarrassment to admit he had once wanted to be an actor.

Fame's allure had worn off with time, but he wondered whether it would have been a better life, the actor's world of make-believe… and then he would walk into a room of journalists, thanking God he had had the sense to ignore that childish need to be seen and appreciated.

But then – particularly after a day of witnessing the worst humanity could offer – he would speculate whether it would have been better to pretend, rather than see it for real.

* * *

**Leap**

It was ridiculous.

But then much of his life after meeting Sherlock had been ridiculous.

His blog hadn't meant to be much. But as the years rolled on and he continued recounting the idiosyncratic genius of his flatmate and the bizarre, dangerous cases, the number of hits continued to grow until he had thousands of followers from every country imaginable and he was pestered by e-mailed requests from television programmes for interviews and book companies for publishing rights.

After a while, Sherlock said that accidental fame suited him, but warned against getting an "inflated ego".

That was ridiculous as well.

* * *

**Fall**

Jealousy was a purposeless emotion; when it wasn't harassing him, it was replaced by irritating feelings of resentment for a _blog_.

So what if John wrote it? So what if it had more hits than his own website? Hit numbers lied – most of those people probably didn't even read it, they probably got there by accident.

These accidental visitors had accidentally made John famous; now people wanted to talk to his flatmate about _him._ Why they couldn't be bothered to talk to _him_ about himself, he didn't know…

… but he wouldn't want to talk to them anyway, the dullards.


	26. XXVI

**XXVI**

**Gallant**

She folded her arms, brow knitted, her lips turned downwards in a frown.

"Hm," she said.

"What?" he snapped.

"Oh, nothing…" Her stance did not change, but her expression softened. She looked at him in a very odd manner, as if she was appraising him for some… feminine purpose. He should have been able to tell, but this was not – as he continually insisted – his area of expertise.

"I do believe I have fulfilled the societal demands for what we call 'an apology.'"

She laughed. "I'm surprised."

"Why?"

"I wasn't expecting an apology at all. That's quite novel of you."

* * *

**Filial**

He had always known someone like Sherlock Holmes was out there; he just hadn't been able to pin a name on him until now.

Even when he was just beginning to toy with the idea of forging a lifestyle out of the humanity's corrupt nature, he had always felt the presence of someone balancing out the equation. For every crime he established, every mystery he planned, there was another to decode it, breathing life into his art.

It was only natural that they would eventually be drawn together.

He liked to think he was the one who triggered the drawing.

* * *

**Vexation**

He had become accustomed to being attacked in his drawing room.

Somehow, the certain people managed to send him messages, ones that were usually literally _pointed_ in some way.

He preferred not to talk about these encounters; they wouldn't lead to any worthwhile conversations. The visits did, however, usually leave visual marks – a scuff here, a scratch there, a smashed mirror. When John or Mrs Hudson inquired what happened, he had two excuses.

One: boredom.

Two: a severe case of vexation.

"Your moods make _me_ 'vexed'," Mrs Hudson would say, before tramping off to add the damage to his bill.

* * *

**Sublime**

They offered him a blanket.

No applause, no words of appreciation, just some blanket to designate his "in shock" status. Every time he tried (politely) handing it back, they shoved it back around his shoulders.

He attempted to look "in shock" to satisfy them, but he quickly became bored and began speculating multiple methods to sieve money off his brother without Mycroft noticing.

It was a lengthy process. Mycroft was Mycroft – the only thing he was good for was providing an avenue for time-wasting hypothetical situations when Sherlock had time to waste.

That, and governmental aide, when it was necessary.

* * *

**Superficial**

"What?"

(John wondered how many times an argument began with "what?")

"This… isn't how it should be."

"I cleaned it."

"Bravo! Are you looking for congratulations? I won't give you any—"

(Of course not.)

"—you hardly deserve it, I can't find anything now—"

(It was best to let the rant run its course. He was bored; organisation set him off more easily when he was bored.)

"Are you finished?"

(A pause, for good measure.)

"_No."_

"Good. I'm going out."

(He wagered Sherlock would still be glaring angrily at the organised space when he returned. Such was life.)


	27. XXVII

**A/N: **New Years Resolution – don't fall off the writing map.

I've had the next many sets written since August/September, but unfortunately fell into a pattern of not posting when my life exploded. My life is still in the process of exploding (I hear that's a situation that's never going to end), so I decided I really should start posting these again anyway.

If I write more following this (highly likely thanks to the second series of Sherlock currently ongoing as of this post), hopefully I can keep the Drabble Muse going this time. ;)

(Wishful thinking, but I like to be positive!)

Thanks to all those of you who are coming back to read again!

* * *

**XXVII**

**Arch**

She would have liked to say he changed her life. She would have liked to say he was her other half. Perhaps a couple years ago she would have nestled comfortably against the schmaltzy romantic wording.

The truth was different.

The truth was he changed _her._ He had drawn her out, like a hunter and his prey, but instead of slicing her throat, he had wrung her dry until she was shrivelled like a raisin. Then he had painstakingly rebuilt her piece by piece, giving her no choice but to accept this new version of herself.

She was his creation.

* * *

**Ornament**

She had valuable skills, he said, when she asked why he had chosen her.

"Did you think it was for your winning personality?" he said.

She should have been hurt by that, but she didn't say anything. She merely continued cleaning her scalpels. They needed more cleaning these days; their pristine quality was something she held on to, as if it were the last shred of her previous life.

"I'm grateful," she said.

He laughed, touching her arm. She had trained herself not to shudder at his touch.

She had – once.

"You have a long way to go," he said.

* * *

**Vault**

Her real self was buried somewhere deep: the question was whether she was climbing away from it or burrowing towards it.

He sometimes got lost in that metaphor; he was a words person. She wasn't.

(Not anymore. Her now extinct romantic side had been.)

She was all scalpel and analysis, cold mind, cold hands. Pristine precision. Cut, cut, cut. He said she could be far more terrifying than he, with her cool scientist's detachment.

Life was her playing field, much as people's minds were his. His honeyed words could persuade them of anything; her precise hands could persuade their bodies.

* * *

**Bridge**

There were still echoing remnants of her past self, mostly present in the mortuary during the day when she had visitors, when Holmes and Watson came to visit, to make demands of her, occasionally dragging DI Lestrade along. _Then_ she could be the nervous, giddy girl, the one who smiled tentatively whenever Holmes looked at her.

She could be that, but underneath she wasn't. Underneath, she was the one helping to turn the wheels, the one seeking to foil Holmes' next action.

Her position was laughably perfect. Holmes never suspected her. She was just the scalpel-wielding coffee girl to him.

* * *

**Exit**

She wasn't allowed to revel aloud.

He did. He loved gloating, after all.

They celebrated; sometimes he took her out.

He drank.

He had her drink.

By then she didn't mind the way his mouth would find its way to hers, the feel of his hands on her body. She relished those hours, though they dulled her mind. Once, the wine made her go a word too far in the wrong direction. He became very calm then, observing her with level eyes.

"Dear Molly, when did I ever say I _needed_ you?" Jim Moriarty said, honeyed smile washing over her.


	28. XXVIII

**XXVIII**

**A Little Bit of This**

When he was three years old, Mother told him to open his eyes and watch the world. She had said so in an off-hand manner, as she was too engaged in her own work to pay him full attention. His young mind, however, didn't accept that it was merely a ploy to keep him occupied, and he took her words to heart.

At some point, she must have noticed the change. Eventually, she began to encourage him – it kept him out from underfoot when she needed to concentrate.

She probably couldn't have guessed how that encouragement would shape his life.

* * *

**Anything But That**

She would always be "Mummy".

Mycroft enjoyed referring to her as such when they were seen in public together. It was a verbal ploy to highlight to those around them that Sherlock would always be the younger, less sophisticated one – quicker to anger, quicker to react to Mycroft's carefully calculated terminology.

Until his brother could leave "Mummy" alone (which he doubted – it was too useful a tactic), "Mummy" would remain, hovering between them, holding them together with an invisible grip.

He had attempted to find a way of using "Mummy" against his brother, but Mycroft was impervious to her memory.

* * *

**Not for Nothing**

As he grew up, he always found he was standing in Mycroft's shadow. Such was the fate of younger siblings; they always had to live up to, and surpass, the standards set by their elders. If they didn't, some adult somewhere – teacher, parent, aunt or uncle – would look down their nose at the unfortunate child and sigh in a disappointed way.

He aimed never to disappoint.

It was an extremely difficult job.

He failed most of the time.

Though that was, he said later, because no one but Mother seemed to see the brilliance in the way he solved puzzles.

* * *

**Everything Else**

It always surprised people when they learned he had a brother – he must give off such an enigmatic air that it was simpler for people to think of him without a family. It was a blunt assumption; he had to come from somewhere. Everyone did.

He preferred to keep "somewhere" swept quietly beneath the table; otherwise, it would come back to bite him at the least opportune moment.

Everyone had their secrets, him included. But unlike others, he knew exactly what to do with his secrets – hide them, stash them, leave them to rot.

He was better off without them.

* * *

**What Matters Most**

When Mycroft visited (which was only when he wanted to coerce his younger brother into doing something for him), there was an exchange of the usual pleasantries. "You're beginning to nest in here" (accompanied by the contemptuous knocking of an umbrella point on the floor) and "Your diet's suiting you well, have you added an exercise routine?" (timed just right so Mrs Hudson would appear with a plate of treats).

But if someone else was present, the game changed. Nothing could escape their eyes, particularly when they had the same target.

It was difficult to say who won those matches.


	29. XXIX

**XXIX**

**Necklace**

"This isn't the right necklace."

The jeweller frowned, taking the pearls from Sherlock's hands. "Of course it is," he said, sliding it under the light to take a second look. "I examined it myself."

"Then your examination was faulty," Sherlock said.

"But they come from the right dealer, they're the right age, the right shape, the correct kind of clasp." The jeweller was going red in the face, looking flustered.

"Yes, indeed – however, that necklace has never been worn. It's obvious if you look at the clasp." Sherlock smiled. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, now would you?"

* * *

**Earrings**

"Earrings? What do – Sherlock!"

He was already in her room, searching.

"When hiding in plain sight, one must dress accordingly. Will these do?"

"_That's_ costume jewellery, dear."

"Is it? It's hard to tell."

He _could_ tell. He could probably tell her exactly which party she'd bought them for.

"Why can't you get your own?"

"Mrs Hudson, you're the only woman with whom I am currently on decent enough terms to borrow jewellery."

"I doubt there's any woman with whom you are on decent enough terms to borrow jewellery."

He stared at her.

"These will do nicely. Have a nice day!"

* * *

**Watch**

There was the expression "wearing your heart on your sleeve".

He'd always thought it more appropriate to say "wearing a watch beneath your sleeve." There was much to be said about watches – adult watches, pocket watches, no watches. He could tell half a person's life story just by looking at their watch. Economic status was the easiest, written in the watch type. With an antique, the family relationship was there. With a dead battery, personality traits began to show.

He had sworn off wearing watches. It was easier to check his phone, anyway – which no doubt said something about him.

* * *

**Belt**

John told him he needed to eat more. He said he didn't eat when he was working. It interrupted his thinking; too much energy was put into digestion, when he needed it for his brain.

Recently, he had been doing a lot of thinking – it was evident from the way his clothes refused to fit. Everything was too big now; it was getting difficult to run around London with his trousers threatening to slide down.

John told him to eat.

He argued eating was for his brother.

John gave up and offered him a belt to solve the trouser problem.

* * *

**Ring**

They argued about the ring.

By then he had already seen it; curiosity had gotten the better of him, even though he had no interest whatsoever in the superfluous societal function that was _marriage._ But he felt John needed to show it to him in person, so he brought the topic up and weaselled the ring out of him.

It was pretty, as far as rocks went. Diamond and gold, simple and modern. Nothing out of the ordinary.

In other words – dull.

John didn't think much of that comment.

"Well, then it's a good thing I'm not proposing to you."


End file.
